Child's Play
by spicyjarvis
Summary: Spiderman has been missing for one year, two months and five days. Clint comes across a homeless kid named Peter Parker before they find him. (Originally uploaded to AO3 under the same name. Not movie compliant.)
1. Chapter 1

**hi - i'm jarvis and this is my trash ass fanfic. enjoy!**

* * *

Time is a funny, funny thing.

This dawns upon Peter Parker as he's clinging to a wall, bare fingertips aching. To him, it feels as if he's been stuck to this wall for an eternity; but then he squints blearily at the shattered face of his wristwatch and comes to realise with an overwhelming amount of debility that it's barely been five minutes.

Time is the _funniest_ thing, but it doesn't make Peter laugh.

He rests his forehead against the surface of the wall, taking comfort of the cool brick against his skin. In the distance both near and far, he can hear many things — after all, this is New York, and New York isn't exactly famous for it's silence — but he carefully tunes it all out until what he's searching for becomes divided from the hum of the traffic outside.

Voices; both dramatically different, akin to the men who own them. One is gruff and accented with a sharp tang of something Russian, while the American's is lilting and kind and definitely counters the tone of the companion he so closely follows.

Peter swallows and it roars in his ears so emphatically that, for a moment, he thinks it could give his position away. He's not really the most practical hider — he's always been the kind of person to get himself included rather than to withhold from it — but he supposes that clinging to a wall in a cutaway of the alley, body positioned so that he is concealed in the shadow cast by the streetlamps outside, is good enough for him.

The Russian man swings his foot at a trashcan and it topples over, scattering crushed cans and empty Chinese takeaway boxes across the floor. "Where the fuck could he have gone?" he curses, head snapping towards his accomplice as if he's to blame. "I saw him go in here! A dead-end alleyway... no way out. Where could he have gone?"

He trails off, then. A small voice in the back of Peter's mind tells him that he's been caught — that his stupid hiding spot isn't as smart as he thinks it is. But this is thankfully proven incorrect when the American begins to speak, his serene tone the voice of reason. "Maybe he just... slipped out of the alley without us noticing. He _was_ pretty scrawny."

Peter's unappreciation for the insult burns into the wall.

"I would have _seen_ him," the Russian insists, his accent growing stronger the more fury he pumps into his words. He kicks another trashbin over; this one spills multiple empty doughnut boxes. Does this man have no regard for New York's littering laws? "Honest to God. He's here somewhere."

"It's possible you _didn't_ see him go," the American counters patiently. He goes to put his hand on his companion's shoulder, but visibly hesitates; Peter understands that this highlights who is the more dominant — and dangerous — of the pair.

Peter assesses his situation further. If he were to drop to the ground, there is an extremely high chance of him being found and chased down — and Peter's body really doesn't run nearly as fast as it used to. The amount of trouble he's been put through just because he can't find it in himself to sprint faster or jump further is growing ridiculous.

He glances up the wall. The light from the streetlamps hits the building on the other side of it, and crawling from the wall to the side of the building could also give his position away. Besides, his backpack — which holds everything he owns — is still tucked behind one of the giant metal skips in the alley and he really, _really_ cannot afford to lose that.

He hates that he's unfortunate enough to be in this situation, and all because he napped outside of the wrong apartment building.

Parker luck does that to you, he supposes.

"Let's just go," the American says — no, _pleads_ , in a voice so innocent that Peter finds he nearly likes the man. "It was just some homeless kid. All he was doing was sleeping. It wasn't like he was breaking our windows or vandalising the side of the building."

The Russian doesn't appear to be pleased by this new information, for he violently kicks over yet another trashbin with a roar, and the clatter sends alarm bells ringing throughout his whole body all at once. It takes a couple of minutes for the man to agree with his patient companion, but he agrees nonetheless, and Peter holds his stuttering breath as the pair walk right underneath him. He watches their backs; watches the way the Russian fingers at the tip of the dagger he'd wanted to sink into Peter's chest; watches the way the American skips like a jolly school girl as they hit the street again.

He waits. Listens for their footsteps until he can't tell the difference between theirs' and everyone else's.

Inhaling a lungful of polluted New York air, Peter drops quietly to the ground. The bitter cold wind sends aggressive shivers up his spine, his thin coat doing nothing to protect him from the bite of December weather. "Ah, fuck," he whispers to himself as he pulls out his backpack from behind the bin, his numb fingers barely having enough strength to hold it. "Fuck _me_."

Of course, the cold is nothing he isn't used to; after he'd been kicked out of May's apartment a year or so ago, his body gradually adjusted to the merciless winter temperatures. The cold hadn't been that big of a problem for him until the lack of proper sleep and proper meals and too much exercise started to weigh down on him. Now, his body can't seem to warm itself up anymore.

(In the back of his mind, something reminds him that spiders can't thermoregulate. Of course they can't. That's just Parker luck.)

It would be much easier to manage if he had his suit. He had built heaters in that and everything; there isn't a day where he doesn't miss the presence of the spandex pressing against his skin. When May had found out about his nightly activities, she'd promptly locked him in his bedroom and burned the suit until it was just another layer of glowing embers on the fireplace. His trusty webshooters had been crushed with a hammer in front of his own eyes.

 _All his hard work gone to waste._

To be honest, he isn't entirely mad about the suit. Sure, he misses it, but he still has his acrobatic flexibility and his sticky fingers (he wishes there were a better way to describe them), and he's okay with that.

He's more angry that May thought it was okay to kick him — her own _nephew_ , her last family member — out of the apartment completely. Whenever he went back and tried to reason with her, she'd just slam the door on his face and tell him to 'fuck off, I thought I'd already told you that you're not welcome here anymore'. Which is fine. He's fine with that.

(He isn't.)

After ten minutes of walking aimlessly up and down a somewhat deserted section of street, his shoe hits a pile of sludge. The wetness soaks through to his feet, unprotected by a decent pair of socks. " _Fuck_ ," he murmurs, staring down at his feet in a trance of complete displeasure. He isn't surprised; just frustrated that his shoes are going to stay damp and cold forever. "Fucking _shit_. Fuck you, December."

He'd have gone about cursing his emotions out more if it weren't for his spider-sense, interrupting him with a tidal wave of sharp needles that travel down the back of his neck and ring ever so quietly in his ears.

He doesn't want to do anything dramatic, not until he knows what to be dramatic about. Instead, in order to appear as if he is unaware of whatever he's been warned about, he does what a homeless person does best; sitting solemnly against a random wall.

The ground is ice cold and hard enough to ache underneath him. He drops his backpack to his side, hooking his arm through the shoulder strap out of pure habit (the last time he didn't, his bag got stolen — along with everything he'd once owned). His spider-sense isn't what he could call ringing anymore, but it's still there, like a low whine of white noise in the back of his mind. Something is wrong. Nothing entirely fatal, so to say, but definitely _wrong_.

It becomes clear to him when he hears a feminine voice on the rooftop of the building he's leaning against. His thumbs rubbing absently over the palm of his fingerless gloves, he focuses his enhanced hearing on _that particular voice_. The noise of New York's streets steadily become a low rumble along with the whine of his spider-sense.

"It was just some homeless kid. He was probably looking through the dumpsters in the alley."

The fact that she thinks he'll actually search through a _dumpster_...

"Barton, chill. Homeless kid. Nothing more, nothing less."

The name 'Barton' sounds somewhat familiar to him, but Peter files that matter away for later. The only subject on his mind is what in the world the woman is doing on that rooftop, and what business she has watching him as she is. She's talking to someone, but they must be on the phone or on a commlink, because he cannot hear a response even if he strains.

Part of him longs to go back and take a proper look in the alley. He had been too busy hiding from an insane Russian man to admire the sights in the area, but even the concept of _something_ with potential value piques his interest...

He shakes his head, then, and reminds himself of the situation at hand. Going down the alley now would draw the woman on the roof to him even further and that's the last thing he wants.

"It's getting late, Barton. Let's go back to the Tower and we'll try again tomorrow."

Her footsteps are just loud enough for him to pick up and even then Peter has trouble dividing it from everything else within his audio range. He waits until he cannot hear her anymore before he finally allows himself to relax, her presence having been the only thing that'd been keeping him from falling asleep right there and then.

Trying to make sense out of the fragmented information is pointless, and even wishing to follow the woman even more so; sleep is tugging at his eyelids, energy leaving his legs as he finds some traces of comfort sitting against the tough concrete of the pavement. People are hitting his legs as they walk around him but he hardly even notices in this state.

He falls asleep lying against the wall, the name 'Barton' lingering on his mind.

* * *

 **this is also uploaded to AO3.  
**

 **comments are welcomed and appreciated!**

 **message me for a link to my discord!**


	2. Chapter 2

**this same fic recently hit 40k hits on AO3. nice.**

* * *

When Peter wakes up, there's a one dollar note by his feet.

It's not often that the people of New York are willing to give anything more than a cent and a dirty look to the homeless population and so Peter assumes he got it purely out of pity. Probably because he's young and skinny and he doesn't have a ratty blanket draped over his legs because he _can't afford one_.

Not that he opposes it, of course; if the pity gets him enough to buy something to eat and a water bottle, then he isn't going to go around complaining about it. Over the time he's been homeless and alone, he's learned that he has to take advantage of everything he can if he wants a good chance of surviving on the streets. The pity he gets — especially as a teenager — is one of his easier forms of income.

He picks the dollar up and climbs to his feet, his feet and fingers numb and stiff from sleeping the night in the bitter cold. The crick in his neck doesn't go away until he's halfway down the street and still struggling to haul his backpack over his shoulders. There isn't much he can buy with a dollar — and he doesn't know where any dollar stores are, so that's out of the question — but he's going to hope that there's a cashier somewhere that won't mind taking a little less money for a product for once. It's not like it'll damage their business too much.

Putting his hoodie over his ears, he sets off down the street, rubbing a thumb protectively over the dollar as if it would disappear. His shoes squelch when he walks and there's water running down the back of his neck from the melting frost in his hair, but he's feeling decent today, and it shows in the form of a skip in his step as he strolls into the closest corner store he can find.

"Hello," the cashier says politely, "please dry your shoes on the mat before you come in."

Peter's shoes are soaked through to his skin thanks to the sludge on the sidewalks, but he deems it too unimportant for the cashier to know — he just rubs his feet halfheartedly on the mat and brushes off the cashier's following thanks in favour of browsing the sandwich aisle.

There isn't a lot of selection. He searches every label but doesn't find any decent newer fillings that interests him, so he goes for the only one he _knows_ he likes — chicken mayonnaise. Even just holding the package in his numb hands unleashes the gnawing hunger from its cave, its claws cutting lines into his stomach lining.

But his heart withers in his chest and sickening anxiety begins to settle in his stomach in place of the hunger when he notices the price of the sandwich. For a crappy corner store meal in cardboard packaging, he'd have thought that $3.50 would be a little excessive.

Nervously, he glances down at his dollar. Maybe the cashier will let him off on this one.

"Just this?" The cashier asks as he dumps the sandwich onto the counter. Even through the dazzling smile he puts on, Peter can see that he's a little nervous of him from the way that his shoulders tighten and his teeth worry his bottom lip. It must be either the hoodie or the blossoming bruise on his jawbone that's giving him the threatening 'teenage deliquent' look.

Not finding his voice in himself, Peter nods in the affirmative. He's never been good at conversation.

Anxiety twists his insides further as the cashier scans the sandwich. "That'll be $3.50," he says, smiling again. When Peter puts the dollar on the counter and unsuccessfully tries to swipe the sandwich away before he notices, the cashier's polite facade fades only by a fraction. He pulls the sandwich away from Peter's immediate reach. "That isn't enough. I'll need $2.50 more before you can take this."

"This is all I have," Peter says, voice wavering nervously. "Can't you just take the dollar for it and I'll pay you the rest another time? I really need this, man..."

But the cashier isn't phased and his voice remains calm and steady as he replies, "no can do, I'm afraid. That can cost me my job if I'm not careful."

"It's just a sandwich. It's not even that expensive," Peter points out, sounding a little more desperate than he'd intended. Hunger is a really big issue — the biggest issue, he could argue — for _anyone_ homeless, but with his enhanced metabolism he really cannot afford to go too long without anything to eat. Not that the cashier can know that, of course.

"If it isn't that expensive, then why can't you afford it?"

Peter huffs and the man's smile grows smug.

"Sorry, kid." The cashier doesn't look sorry at all. "I can't lose my job just because you're hungry and can't afford a little sandwich. Get your mom to make you something at home. Shoo."

Peter inwardly groans at his choice of phrasing, but doesn't feel up for starting himself a pity party by telling him that his mom is, in fact, dead. "You can't just give me this one thing?"

"No."

He knows he should back down, but he's always been the persistent kind of person. "Please?"

This, apparently, had been clutching at the last straws, because the cashier's personality suddenly flips a dramatic 180. His fists hit the counter with such raw aggression that Peter's spider-sense jars and he jumps back a couple of steps, startled like a deer.

"Look," he snaps, his voice climbing. "I can't give you the fucking sandwich, alright? I tried to be nice about it, but you're just getting on my nerves now. Get the fuck out of here before I knock your lights out, yeah?"

(Peter wonders whether _yelling and threatening_ a customer will get him fired as giving him a sandwich will.)

"Get lost!" he shouts again.

Peter feels his stomach twist with every syllable he speaks. "Okay. Jus-"

He cuts himself off without noticing, distracted entirely by the purposeful footsteps making their way towards him from somewhere else in the shop. He pulls his hood down to run an anxious hand through his hair, still damp from the melted frost. There's no way he's going to steal the sandwich — Spiderman _stops_ petty crime instead of embarking on it — and he doesn't think that it's fair to endanger the cashier's job by convincing him to take the dollar for it. He's only following the set store regulations, after all.

Just as he's about to swipe his dollar from the counter, another voice joins them. "What's happening over here, then?" it asks, it's tone jarring in a sense of it's casual, friendly dominance. Peter tries to place where he's heard the voice before, but his memory promptly fails him.

The cashier's personality flips once more; this time, he's more on the submissive side. He seems immediately intimidated by the arrival of this new character and Peter — as he carefully picks his battles and keeps watching his feet — finds himself enjoying it quite a bit. "No-nothing," he manages out.

"It didn't sound like nothing," the voice comes again. "Why were you yelling, then?"

The cashier chuckles nervously. "It wasn't much. Just this kid trying to grab this $3.50 sandwich for a dollar. Kept persisiting when I kept saying no."

"He _looks_ like he needs it. The floor that interesting, kid?"

Peter looks up to snark at the man, then, but his mouth dries when he meets blue-green eyes he _definitely_ recognises.

"Hawkeye?"

"In the flesh," Hawkeye responds, lopsided grin that beams pure honesty. Peter nearly doesn't recognise the man; with a hoodie, faded jeans and a mop of messy blonde bedhead, he looks alien compared to the man who wears the fitting suit and never misses a single shot he fires. Not nearly as threatening or cool; just a normal dude wielding popcorn and Doritos instead of his infamous bow.

It's nearly grounding, to see a man with such incredible ability and impact — an _Avenger, of all people —_ standing in a shitty corner store on a street infested by rats and the occasional homeless person. Makes him seem more human and less _ass-kicking superhero._

 _"Barton, chill. Homeless kid. Nothing more, nothing less."_

 _"It's getting late, Barton. Let's go back to the Tower and we'll try again tomorrow."_

And, all at once, two things dawn to him: who 'Barton' is, and what the 'Tower' is.

Hawkeye is watching him now, his eyes moving up and down his body, something he's seeing pinching his brows together. "God, you're like a walking _stick_. No wonder you were so desperate for the sandwich," he concludes eventually. Then he turns to the cashier, who seems to have no say on the matter anymore. "I'll pay the money for the sandwich as well as my food. Give me that card machine."

"I can't believe Hawkeye wants to use my card machine," the cashier whispers, just about audible enough for Peter's enhanced hearing to pick up, as he hands it over to the Avenger.

"You got somewhere to go, kid?" Hawkeye asks as he slots his card in and hits a couple of buttons on the machine. "Apartment?"

Peter doesn't find himself in a situation where he doesn't know what to say very often, but he's gradually finding that this is turning into a good example of one. A rush of heat spreads across his cheeks and to the tips of his ears. "I used to," he manages out eventually.

Half of him expects Hawkeye to turn around and start to mother him, like a lot of little old women try to do whenever they pass him napping on a street corner, but then he remembers that this is an _Avenger_ , and Avengers don't have time to deal with scrawny homeless kids when there's better things to do out there. Like, chilling in Tony Stark's expensive Avengers Tower, or whatever else people living rich do with their spare time.

But he doesn't. He just seems to understand. His eyes are full of questions — that much is obvious — but he thankfully doesn't vocalise any. He passes the card machine back to the cashier and turns to make his leave. "You stay safe, kid. The wind'll blow you away if you aren't careful," he says instead, pressing the sandwich gently into his shaking palms.

Peter pretends not to notice the ten dollar bill that comes with it.

.

He sees more of Hawkeye after that.

The first time, there isn't too much interaction. Just the perfect amount, really.

Peter had taken to sitting in his usual spot when he needs to clear his head; on the wall of a hidden backstreet, leaning against the adjacent corner of a building with one leg dangling off the side and the other laying in front of him. It's not an alleyway, so to say, but it's quiet enough to be considered one, and there aren't many people who come this way for it doesn't lead to anything save for old, rundown housing.

Peter still doesn't know why Hawkeye had even been walking down there and he doesn't dwell on it very often. It's best not to question his odd, unpredictable character even at this early stage.

He'd seen the Avenger before the Avenger had seen him, but his heart still skipped nervously when their eyes met for the briefest of moments. If Hawkeye had felt similarly, he didn't show it — he only grinned and waved at Peter as if he were greeting a friend of several years, before continuing down the road with half a skip in his step.

The second time had also been entirely unexpected.

He'd been especially hungry that day, so instead of retreating to the wall he'd taken to the streets and sat down near a particularly busy food store in the hope that someone would be nice enough to buy him something while they were doing their weekly shopping. It's unlikely, especially in this area, but it never hurts to try and the shop manager never tries to drive him away like most others do.

It may be a wealthier area but, even with that knowledge in mind, Peter definitely didn't expect to see Hawkeye strolling into the food store wearing his costume with the bow strapped to his back. Peter would have believed it were a cosplayer if he didn't know better, but that messy blonde hair and light, knowing smile is something he can recognise anywhere.

When he'd come out with two shopping bags and gaggle of swooning women who seem to hound his trail, he'd stopped next to where Peter had been sitting against the brick pillar and crouched down to meet his level. He'd handed him a chicken and mayo sandwich in a package identical to the one in the rundown corner store and said to him, "you're looking less cold today, kid. How've you been?"

Peter doesn't recall his reply, but he _does_ remember that Hawkeye — an _Avenger_ , in the _flesh_ — had ruffled his hair before making his leave.

The third time, Hawkeye had been more talkative.

Peter had been sitting against his wall instead on top of it, too exhausted to scale it for the first time in his life. He hadn't eaten in a good few days and he couldn't seem to make his fingers stick to the surface of the wall as well as he used to be able to — the effort it would take to climb it without using his abilities would have probably killed him before he got to the top.

(An exaggeration, but Peter was worried that it could be a possibility he doesn't want to think about.)

Hawkeye had come around the corner wearing sweatpants and holding a plastic bag over his shoulder. Upon noticing Peter half-asleep against the wall, he'd come and sat down beside him without hesitating. "You tired?" he'd asked genuinely.

Peter had turned his head to look at him, but didn't say anything. Living on the streets with no one to talk to really doesn't turn you into the most talkative of people.

"You're too skinny and pale, kid. Makes me worry about you." Hawkeye had turned his head so as to get a better look at his face then, and he'd made an alarmed noise. He'd then pulled out a blanket and then a McDonalds takeaway bag. "These were for Steve — he's feeling under the weather, and he loves cheeseburgers and these blankets that this old lady knits for her favourite people a block over — but I feel like you need them more. He'd understand."

He'd hesitated, unused to such generosity, but Hawkeye had put them in his lap before he'd managed to object. "Hawkeye," he'd whispered, his voice wavering as emotion clawed at his throat. God, how nice it was to get gifts like _that_...

"Call me Clint, kid. I hope you aren't one of those freaks who doesn't like McDonalds," the Avenger had replied with a fond chuckle. He'd stood up to make his leave, ruffling Peter's hair again. "I need to go. Catch you later, kid."

That was the time that Peter remembers the most. The blanket is still rolled up in his backpack for safe-keeping, actually.

This time, though, Clint isn't alone.

Since the lane in which the wall is found is practically deserted all day, Peter thinks that Clint had actually come to find him in order to introduce his friend — a thought which spreads warmth through his chest and reminds him that there are good people in this harsh, harsh world.

His friend isn't smiling as him and Clint come to stand at the base of his wall, but Peter knows a friendly face when he sees one — gentle brown eyes and easygoing expression, hardly batting an eyelid as he meets his gaze. A good, honest person who Peter immediately recognises to be the second coolest Avenger named after a bird — Falcon. Huh.

"Hey kid. Sam wanted to meet you," Clint says. "You want to come down or are you alright up there?"

"I'm fine here," Peter replies, quiet. "You can sit if you want."

"Nice," Sam says. He passes Clint the plastic bag he's holding, braces his arms on the top of the wall (because of _course_ he's tall enough to do that) and seats himself with little more than a soft grunt to represent his effort. "I can see why you like it here. It's nice and quiet."

Clint passes the bag back up to his teammate and also takes a seat on the wall, squeezing himself between Sam and Peter. "We got some McDonalds, if you're interested. Got you another cheeseburger and a diet coke," he says, leaning back so Sam can pass the bag over him.

It's still warm when he takes it out of the box and his cold fingers soak it in immediately. "Thanks," he mumbles, through a mouthful of slimy burger and bun.

"You got a name, kid?" Sam asks as he digs into a sweet-chilli chicken wrap.

Peter would have hesitated if it were anyone else, but he's found that he's trusted them faster than anyone else he's met while living on the streets — and not only because they're Avengers, although he'd be lying if he says that it isn't part of it. Maybe it's the way that they don't throw him pity parties, or how they treat him like a person and not some piece of homeless scum living only to be an inconvenience.

He swallows his mouthful and says, "Peter."

"It's nice to meet you, Peter."

He doesn't say anything else; just offers Sam the dopiest grin he can manage with a burger between his teeth. Clint huffs and steals a bite of his teammate's chicken wrap. "Delicious."

"You have your own! Lay off eating everyone else's food."

Clint's eyes narrow accusatorially. "Are you fatshaming me?" he hisses.

(And that's when Peter realises how much he's beginning to enjoy the company of Sam and Clint.)

* * *

 **thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

**here you go! thanks for the comments haha. i'm sorry i don't respond to them, i have exams and i'm struggling with chapter 17 of this fic rn. lol.**

* * *

Clint isn't sure what to think of Peter.

If there's one thing he knows for certain, it's that Peter is a good kid. He's a little on the quiet side, but Clint knows an honest person when he sees one; he's got a smart head on those narrow shoulders of his and, although clearly grateful whenever he shows up with some extra food, doesn't act greedy or as if he were expecting Clint to have food whenever he's around. It's a good trait. Good kid.

He's got tawny brown hair (that's a little long, but is still trimmed every so often, meaning he either does it himself or there's someone nice enough to give him free cuts) and big brown eyes, doe-like and curious, yet clouded over with a thin layer of something sadder, hardly noticable yet still so obvious all at once. His skin is pale and the dark circles under his eyes are a constant but he seems more animated rather than a little dead on the inside.

And he doesn't treat Clint as an Avenger, but as an average person (even when he comes around wearing his suit and his bow on his back). He's so used to civilians acting like he's some sort of bigshot, attention-worthy celebrity that being around someone who acts like he's just _Clint_ is startling — and extremely appriciated.

It's these factors beside many more that keep him intruiged; keep him coming back to Peter whether he wants to give him an extra cheeseburger or just have a chat.

He fears that Peter thinks he's only around because he pities him, so he makes it very clear after their first few meetings that he isn't. Sure, the father side of him worries for the kid and how he's far too young to be stuck on the streets of New York, hungry and cold with nowhere to go and no one to rely on. He shouldn't have to go through something as damaging as that.

 _No one should._

But then he remembers that Peter is independent and strong and can manage just fine without the occasional meal and company from Clint. After all, he's been just fine before they even met, for however long he's been out on the streets (which is information he plans to get, eventually). He's a good kid. A good, smart kid who is determined to kick life in it's cruel ass.

When him and Sam go out to buy breakfast muffins (because Tony's questionable cooking just _won't_ do) in their sweats and hoodies, they hardly notice that they order an extra one.

When they leave the shop and turn the complete opposite way from the Tower, they don't bat an eyelid.

When they show up at the base of Peter's wall, they start to grow concerned.

Where Clint expected Peter to be sitting on the top of the wall, one leg hanging off the side and his fingers tapping a rhythm against his thigh as per usual, the space is entirely empty: and he isn't sure why he feels as if something _terrible_ has happened to him. It's not like he's _always_ on the wall.

"He's gone," Sam states with a sullen expression.

"Good observation," Clint snarks, rubbing his forehead with cold fingers. "I know that the kid isn't _always_ on the wall, so it shouldn't be weird that he isn't here, but something feels wrong, Sam." He sighs, glancing up to where Peter usually sits again, half-hoping that he'd randomly show up if he were to look again. "Maybe I'm being dumb. Am I being dumb?"

"No." Sam braces his arms on the top of the wall and peers into the thin space behind it. "His backpack is stuck in the gap between the building and the wall, but not like it's been done purposefully to hide it," he observes, pulling it out and showing it to Clint with a worried grimance. There's scuff marks all over it, but it's in tact otherwise. "It's like it fell."

Something that makes his stomach drop occurs to Clint, like a switch turning on. "He never goes anywhere without his backpack."

Sam bites his lip, his eyes watching a corner of the ground as he thinks. "I know that there's a million perfectly okay reasons for him to be gone without his backpack," he starts, swallowing loudly, "but I can't help but feel like something happened."

And that's when they hear it — a scuffle of feet from further down the lane; a shout of anguish; the unmistakeable sound of a fist hitting skin.

Clint drops the bag of breakfast muffins and races towards the noise without so much as hesitating. He nearly wishes he had his bow with him, because breaking up fights — and there is no doubt that breaking up a fight is what he is about to do, because he knows the sound of one like he knows the back of his hand — is so much easier when you have a deadly weapon at hand.

He slows down as he reaches an even thinner alleyway branching off the main one. There's the cackle of cruel laughter and more shouting, even more frightened as before, but it sounds muffled and considerably weaker. Anger curls through his stomach, but he channels it into his fists instead of his voice as he stalks into the alley, Sam close at his heels.

And... it's Peter.

Only, he's the one on the floor, a hand over his mouth and a pair of strong arms pinning him to the floor so hard that Clint fears his shoulders will break. There's fear in those gentle brown eyes and a stream of blood running from a mess of bruises and gashes on his forehead and jawline — a mess that sends not just anger but pure _fury_ through Clint's veins, because these guys are beating on a defenceless _homeless kid._

(Not just _any_ homeless kid, though — _his_ homeless kid.)

The two men holding him down are dirty-looking skanks, all muscle but clearly no brain in their ugly heads, and don't seem to be phased by the sudden apperance of Clint and Sam. One of them — a tan man with a tangled beard and black eyes that stink of pure _stupidity —_ cackles and hits the back of Peter's head against the floor again. "You out yet, kid?" he spits.

Sam steps forward, taking a less violent approach to the matter, but Clint can see the justified anger in the way his jaw tightens. "Let him go," he says, eyes flashing. "You've done enough to him. This isn't the way to-"

But the other man, with dirt smeared across his skin and a sick grin toying with his features, interrupts him with a sharp cackle. "We've only been at it for ten minutes," he tells them, and Clint's fist clench harder as he puts a foot on top of Peter's chest. "Kid fought back, but we got 'im quiet eventually. Been a while since I've felt this alive!"

Peter is watching them through eyes shrouded with panic and pain, latching onto their apperance as if they would disappear if he were to shift his gaze away. He looks tired, probably from loss of blood and the numerous blows to the head he's clearly recieved, but he unwaveringly stays awake — probably with the knowledge that he could never wake up if he had severe brain damage in mind.

Never has Clint wanted to smother a kid that is not his own with affection more than he does now.

"He's a kid," Sam attempts to reason. He looks somewhat queasy. "You're really enjoying beating on a kid?"

"Best part of my day," Tangled Beard answers.

"This one has been a good screamer!" Dirt Face declares, a finger up in the air, as if he were proud (and there is no doubt that he is).

Tangled Beard's eyebrows waggle suggestively. "Gets me excited, y'know?"

That's the last straw for Clint. He dives foward, sending a foot into Tangled Beard's chest and following it up with a kick to the head driven by complete and utter _anger_. The blow is hard enough knock him unconscious immediately and he collapses limply into a rotting trashbag, blood running from his nose where it made contact with the floor. "You're fucking disgusting," he spits onto his motionless body.

Dirt Face jumps away from Peter to tackle Clint, but Sam catches it quick as ever; he drives his fist into the man's cheek and then another into his stomach, then kicks him to the ground beside his companion where he, too, lays still and unconscious with blood running from a cut in his forehead. They aren't dead, but Clint wishes to Hell that they are.

"I can't believe people like that exist," Sam says eventually.

But Clint is too occupied with the shivering figure on the ground to respond. He crouches down beside Peter steadily, throat tightening as he notices the tears pricking at the corner of the poor kid's eyes. He's cold and terrified and hurt and he doesn't know how to go about this without overwhelming him.

It's now that he notices the extensive damage dappling the skin across his face and neck; the bruises swell deep and dark and the gashes are deeper than he first thought. Blood from a couple on his cheeks run off his face and onto the ground underneath him. There's most likely more underneath the thin shirt and skinny jeans he's wearing, but he doesn't want to check until Peter is comfortable.

"Hey, Pete. Can I touch you?" he begins, voice wavering.

The kid hardly even pauses — just nods his consent and winces.

"You're okay." He runs his hands through his tawny hair, which, with a dash of terror, he realizes is slick with blood. He makes no immediate reaction save for showing his hand now stained with blood to Sam over his shoulder, who curses and pulls out his phone. "You're fine, Pete."

"Tired," Peter murmurs, voice slurring.

His eyes close slowly but Clint catches it fast, lightly tapping his cheeks to keep him alert. "Hey. Hey, Peter. Don't close your eyes, yeah? Keep looking at Sam, Peter. Keep your eyes on him." There's probably extensive bruising on his ribs and stomach, so Clint doesn't try to sit him up against the wall; just holds his head in one palm and his hand with another.

"We had a breakfast muffin for you, Petey," Sam says. "Blueberry. You like blueberries?"

A hazy grin lights up Peter's bruised face, despite himself. "M' aunt... she made g... good blueb'rry pancakes..."

"Was she a good cook?" Clint asks next. It's clearly draining for the kid to be talking, but they need to keep him awake, and distracting him with conversation is the best they can do before help arrives. Sam shows him his phone screen - a text message from Happy, telling them that he's going to drive a car to their location. "Really? To the Tower?"

"It's easier," Sam answers. Then he turns back to Peter, who remains barely awake, yet still regarding them with a slight smile. It's amazing that he's managed to stay conscious for this long; he's recieved countless blows to the head if the mass of blackening bruises and the blood-slicked hair is anything to go by, and there is no doubt that there's more to see under his clothes, too.

Peter's skin looks pale where it isn't mottled and he's gripping onto Clint's hand so hard that his knuckles are bone-white - as if he might disappear if he were to let go. Despite being in such a bad condition, he still manages to hold on, and Clint is reminded of how strong and capable this kid really is.

It's familiar. He can't quite place it.

"No hosp'tals," Peter says suddenly.

At this statement, Clint's mind stutters. Maybe he's just being paranoid at this point, but he's pretty sure that refusing treatment at a hospital is something to be suspiscious about, and questions that remain unvocalized surface in his brain. The only reason plausible to Clint is that going to hospital will mean that the CPS will be alerted, because he's homeless and — judging by his apperance and size, though that could just be malnutrition — likely running from them.

Head tilting to the left, Sam leans in closer. "No, you're not going to hospital. We're taking you to the Tower's medical wing, kiddo. Banner is a lot better than those doozies," he promises, a chuckle bubbling from his throat when Peter's eyes light up at Bruce's name.

"Bruce B'nner?" he slurs.

"The one and only," Clint answers. "You're a fan?"

But Peter doesn't reply; just gazes past Sam, out of the thin backlane. Clint follows his eyes to see that one of Stark's cars is parked outside, with Happy's concerned face peering at them through the open window. "How urgent is it? I need to know how fast to drive," he asks them loudly.

Sam turns away to answer him, and Clint refocuses his attention onto Peter. The kid is still awake, but that small dash of energy in his eyes is starting to fade faster and faster behind his half-closed eyelids. "Pete," he says, hitting his cheek softly. "Pete, keep your eyes on me, yeah? We're going to get you in the car. Just stay awake, even if it's hard. Try for me."

"M'kay," Peter murmurs, readjusting his grasp on Clint's hand. His hands are so small - so pale.

"Good kid. You're doing really well."

It takes them some time and a lot of patience, but they eventually get Peter lying in the backseat of the car, his head resting atop of Clint's lap. The archer, while running a hand through his blood-soaked hair, is telling Peter that he'll be okay, that they're getting him help - mostly to comfort the kid, but also to comfort himself, too. He hasn't stop shaking for twenty minutes.

"Thanks for coming so fast, Happy," Sam says from the passenger seat, turning to the driver.

"It's no problem," he answers as he takes to the roads. "I have to ask, though — what happened to him?"

"Some dickwads beat him up." Clint huffs, feeling anger biting at his throat again. "There was no reason. They didn't want money. They just wanted to have some fun." He shakes his head, glancing down at the half-unconscious kid in his lap. "He has a lot of head injuries."

"I can see that," Happy says, watching them in the mirror. "Who is he, then?"

Sam is drumming his fingers against his knee — something he does when he's anxious, Clint has noticed over time. "His name is Peter, and he's a homeless kid Clint met in a corner store," he explains, speaking somewhat faster than usual, like there's far too much nervous energy and no other way to expel it. "He introduced us once. He's a good kid. Deserves better than what he has."

"We bring him food sometimes," Clint continues, "whenever I buy something like... I don't know, a cheeseburger, I buy extra and bring it round to him. To help him out, y'know? It can't be easy being out on the street, as young as he is."

"That's nice of you," Happy observes.

"Yeah. I'm just glad we got to him. Imagine what could've happened if we didn't show up when we did..." A visible shudder shakes Sam and Clint swallows, feeling queasy at the thought. He hasn't felt this shaken up and scared for someone else as much as he is now in a while, and he is quickly finding that it's not a feeling that is very much welcome.

Happy hums. "Strange that he doesn't want to go to hospital," he points out after a while.

"I thought it was to avoid CPS. I don't know how old he is, but I hardly think that he's older than eighteen... " Clint looks down at Peter again, noticing his eyes are closed and his grip on the archer's hand has loosened considerably. A streak of anxiety races through his chest. "Hey, Petey. You awake? Stay with me, yeah?" He pats the boy's cheek with shaky fingers.

"'m awake," Peter manages out. "Wh... where..."

No one says anything when Happy passes the speed limit.

* * *

 **so does anyone want to join my discord?**


End file.
